


Midnight's Mourning

by AvaCelt



Series: Midnight Piper [4]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Gen, M/M, Mild Gore, has some Death Note inspired moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 07:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1680428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaCelt/pseuds/AvaCelt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minseok’s skin is the color of ivory cream, and Wu Fan cannot help but let his fingers drift over the unmarred flesh as they lay side by side. Where do you go when you think I sleep, he wants to ask, letting the bud of his thumb stroke the surface of sharp cheekbones. Do you wonder if I dream, he wants to ask. Do you forget that I’m here, he wants to scream. Where do you go, my love, he thinks. Why won’t you stay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight's Mourning

Suho often wonders if loving someone this much is correct. Not right, of course, nor wrong. Right and wrong don't exist in his world, not amongst the sentences strung together by his kind. Suho is more concerned with whether or not the act is correct within demonic jurisprudence. Often, he presumed no. This kind of infatuation is dandy at best, but ultimately useless.

After all, humans are just food. It's delightful the way their bodies shudder and decay as Suho and his kind drink the souls right out of their mouths (if not through other body cavities, but he knows not to ask such personal questions). Suho often wonders how many of the bog bodies discovered in the Scottish peat bogs are actually of farmers from the iron and bronze ages, and not just weary, present-day folks caught in the web of a leering monster. Oh well, Suho thinks. They're dead regardless.

But not Minseok. Never Minseok.

Perhaps it was his infectious smile that kept Suho from devouring the young woman he'd wheedled into joining him outside of the school canteen one pleasant afternoon. Or maybe it had been the look of heart-wrenching calm when Minseok cut his finger on a pieces of chipped wood and proceeded to put the digit in his mouth and suck the wound dry.

Or maybe it was the night Suho peeked from behind wooden panels as Minseok chopped his parents into manageable pieces before tossing them in the lime pit he'd discovered. Either way, Suho was in love long before the man tried to jump into the cold river.

Suho remembers the night well. It was the night they had joined hands. Of course, Minseok didn't know they did, but they had. Suho did let him live, after all.

Under demonic jurisprudence, one shalt not play with the food if one had no intention of actually eating it. The demons who kept Suho company were already disappointed. He couldn't blame them. Often, he wondered if snapping Sehun's neck would be a good way to get the man's attention, but he keeps the urge hidden, simply because he had grown fond of the little brat. But still. Demonic jurisprudence. He'd failed his entire race.

Falling in love with a _human_.

Oh, but he's not just _any_ human, Suho would cry. Minseok was beautiful in his own right, strong, manipulative, and utterly ruthless when his urges bubbled. Not many of Suho's kind could harbor such qualities without looking a bit like a cliched fool, but Suho blames that tidbit on the state of the century's depiction of murderers.

But demons aren't murderers. They're simply hungry. Suho frequently reminds himself that murder is what Minseok does in his free time. Suho? Suho would simply tag along for the meals.

The bait is simple enough. Both Suho and Minseok are easy on the eyes, and the worst of the worst can never pass up something as exotic as a young, Asian man with creamy white skin and full pink lips. Those are the most fun. Suho relishes their silent screams as he drinks just enough that the bodies are frozen to the touch, but not browning and well on their way to decomposition.

But Suho's not always eating, and even then, he keeps an eye out when Minseok goes out to kill to keep his energy at a manageable level. It does wonders for him that he can be at two places at once, or three, or ten. Everything to keep the humans dancing on their toes, is what Suho's company usually mutter, but Suho thinks it's because demons are just that sly.

A body in a bar, a body in a train, and an ethereal presence slowly walking down the steps of the city courthouse and flashing a smile beckoning strangers to their death.

Demons are just that sly, he once told Minseok.

Oh, but that rotten Wu Fan just _had_ to turn out be one step ahead. Wu Fan with his dainty looks, and quiet demeanor, and his ever-present collection of _books_. Suho always twitches his right eye in disgust whenever he catches the man sitting and reading intently, a cup of coffee within arm's reach. Wu Fan with his dark brown hair, sometimes dyed blonde, sometimes dyed a dark shade of red, but always perfectly styled, always a wonder to Minseok's eyes, always something precious.

Wu Fan.

Now _his_ neck, that Suho could snap at any time. He wants to, but then that shitstain Jong Dae would lose his mind, and Minseok would be in danger. How Minseok hadn't caught on yet, Suho could not fathom, but he blames Wu Fan. Delicate, brittle Wu Fan. Suho once imagined chopping him up and putting him through a leaf grinder, not even doing him the honor of becoming a meal. Suho would rather starve first.

Suho hates to admit it, but he's cried because of him. No, there isn't anything worth praising in Wu Fan, with his gangly body, awkward limbs, and genuinely unappealing gait. But Suho has cried. He's cried because _Minseok_ finds something enamoring about him, something he apparently cannot find in Suho.

Suho has watched them couple just as often as he's watched Minseok stab victims in the neck with a clip-point blade before Suho takes a sip of their souls. As much as he hates to admit it, both instances are quite beautiful, and he prays that one day it'll be _him_ writhing underneath Minseok's powerful arms and loving gaze, whether it be a clip-point blade at his throat, or cock buried deep inside him.

The gestures, Suho remembers, always begin with a softness Suho can't bring himself to replicate on even his most willing of meals. He recalls one particular night where Lu Han and Yixing had taken Sehun, his new girlfriend, and that nutjob Jongin out for dinner and a movie. Minseok waved them goodnight, and then locked up the house and led Wu Fan to their bed, both still clad in work clothes and house slippers.

Suho remembers Minseok peeling off layer after layer of cloth from Wu Fan's body, so carefully, so gently, as if he were afraid of breaking what lay beneath the seams of fabric. When he'd shed his own clothes, it was done quickly and efficiently, but with Wu Fan, Minseok had taken his time.

Suho remembers the pads of Minseok's worn fingers drifting along the downy hair of Wu Fan's legs. Wu Fan's laugh, so light, so _infuriatingly_ light, had almost made Suho give his position away as a ghostly apparition watching their lovemaking from the corner of Minseok's cozy little bedroom.

He remembers Minseok taking Wu Fan into his mouth, pleasuring him with his tongue, his teeth, his fingers. He remembers all the little sounds Minseok was able to coax out of the taller man, all the little hesitations, the looks, the _need_.

Minseok had needed _Suho_ when he'd lost his brother to the government, not Wu Fan. And Wu Fan, Wu Fan had needed a prayer when he crashed into that car and killed an entire family and put himself into a coma.

Suho had smirked in his corner. Beautiful, admirable Minseok didn't know about that little tidbit.

And still, Wu Fan had sighed so deeply, so lustfully, so needfully that Suho had thought about impaling him with a sharpened tree branch then and there as he came in Minseok's mouth while Minseok smiled around his cock.

He remembers Minseok's pink lips glistening, a hungry look in his eyes as he meandered from Wu Fan's crotch to his stomach. Lips sucked eagerly on Wu Fan's belly button, and Wu Fan had mewled. Actually _mewled_.

And Suho could have snapped then had Minseok not snapped before him.

Minseok flipped him over, brought him to his hands and knees, and pushed into him without any preparation. That's it, Suho had thought, Wu Fan would leave Minseok because Minseok was insane, and everyone knew that. Jong Dae, the shitstain, knew that and even Luhan, the resident alcoholic, had figured it out. Suho had almost laughed out loud. Minseok could only be tender up until the point his passion spilled over the tightly capped rim of his bottle of self control. And then Minseok would become a monster. Suho had thought the stars had aligned for him that night. Wu Fan would sob for him to stop, Minseok could catch on that he'd lost control, and it would be over.

Instead, Wu Fan had pushed back against snapping hips, gripping the sheets as if they were his lifeline. Wu Fan had begged, _begged_ for more and Suho had gripped the wooden edge of the armoire until the black color of his leathery skin began to peek out from underneath the pale, white illusion of his arms. Wu Fan had begged for more and Minseok had given it to him, had pulled his hair and bit his shoulder, came inside him and then laid down on his back before watching the taller man mount his cock and ride him into the mattress while, obscene, guttural sounds escaped his mouth and into Suho's range of hearing.

And Suho had watched as Minseok let his own hands grip bony hips and eagerly thrust himself into the man falling apart on top of him. Wu Fan moved up and down, touching himself, murmuring, groaning, sighing, _needing_. And Minseok smiled as if the bliss wasn't in the orgasm, but in the act itself. Suho had watched as the Minseok rose on one elbow and let a hand caress one of Wu Fan's sweaty cheeks as Wu Fan succumbed to to his climax and came over his and Minseok's chests.

Wu Fan hadn't noticed the loving gesture in his fervor, but Suho had.

Then Suho had watched as Minseok carried Wu Fan to the bathtub, Wu Fan's arms wrapped around Minseok's neck, his long legs enveloped about Minseok's waist. Pale skin and a slim figure had reflected against hard muscles and slightly tanned skin from years of physical labor. The air of royalty and the musky scent of a monster mingled together as Suho watched Minseok gently settle Wu Fan into the clean, warm water.

Suho had watched them doze off in a tub laden with bubbles while the sickly, sweet scent of lavender filled the air. Suho watched as Minseok wrapped his arms around a man twice his height, yet more fragile than a leaf fluttering in the wind. Suho had seen him kiss Wu Fan's neck, Wu Fan's fingers, Wu Fan's mouth.

Wu Fan.

And Suho had retched into the toilet when he was back in one place, in one piece, the black leather of his skin tightening, his red eyes flaring, his hunger growing.

But Suho would never eat Wu Fan.

Humans are only food, after all, and it wouldn't be long before Minseok is reminded that he needs _Suho_ , and not Wu Fan. Suho had long decided he woudn't eat Sehun, out of love for Minseok, but Wu Fan? He would simply toss him. The others? Wu Fan's precious friends? He would devour them right in front him. He would let Minseok take him from behind _right_ in front of Wu Fan's horrified face, and then he'd slit Wu Fan's throat as Minseok came inside of him and call it a day.

But then again, demonic jurisprudence still has its merits, and Suho knows he wouldn't mind bending Wu Fan over a block of wood and beheading him before setting the parts on fire before there's nothing but ash and dust left, a split between gruesome and beautiful.

But alas, it's still a human Suho loves, and the company he keeps still crinkle their noses. It's not their fault, Suho knows. Humans just don't smell right, and even when they're eaten, the taste of their souls always vary. Suho is lucky enough to say that he's had very few terrible experiences, but still. Humans.

Demons could not love humans, just like Sehun could not marry the chocolate chip cookies Minseok would often bake.

But Suho would make an effort, of course, because love did that to people. And things. Things like Suho.

But more so, he's going to make an effort because he knows there's someone else falling in love, and as much as Suho wishes to set fire to everything that has claim to Minseok's heart, his first priority is Minseok's safety.

And that means the shitstain has to go first.

Oh, but the shitstain is _funny_ , Suho would admit. But he has to go, and that means Suho has to take out his team. That Yagami? Suho just doesn't feel right about that one, and there's a distinct smell on him that Suho has yet to decipher. The American? Arrogant, as always, and would be most likely get himself killed before Suho has to make any phone calls to have him taken out. And the perpetually smiling one, the one that goes by Chanyeol Park? He seems like a tasty meal, and Suho would make a note of it to coax Minseok into braving that kill.

And the shitstain.

Suho smirks, remembering the handbook his company would often recite from memory. Thou shalt not laugh, meaning, don't make jokes, demons don't _laugh._ Not that joking is wrong, but demons are generally morbid creatures, and they eat human souls, so where's the joke in draining the very life from a living, breathing being?

Shitstain thinks it's funny, considering how many people he's killed in his five tours, so Suho chuckles and remembers to mention it at his next dinner party for his pals. And of course, go over pointers on how to get said shitstain to finally coax Wu Fan away from Minseok, and then ultimately kill them both the next time Suho's friends think they're hungry for a good hunt.

All in all, things would work out, because for Suho, love is just about the best motivation there is for these kinds of horror. Not that Suho would ever tell Minseok of his plans, of course not. He loved him so, and couldn't bear to see him crestfallen. No, that wouldn't do.

Demonic jurisprudence is tough business, after all, and vengeance? Suho clucks his tongue and thumbs over the legal documents for his next case. His gaze drifts from the small font over to the photo of him, Minseok, and Sehun. Vengeance? Suho smiles and sighs deeply, like a wife after a particularly good night with the family.

Demons are nothing if not vengeful, and he intends to have Wu Fan understand that fact rather intimately.

*******

“It's not fun if we don't have any strippers,” Kim Jong Dae whines. “Maybe we should go clubbing!”

Yagami tries not to grimace, but it's difficult when Park's laughter reverberates throughout the SUV while Burrows chuckles into his cigarette. The armed escorts are silent and passive, but Yagami's hunted Gorn for so long that even the slightest slip-up is noticeable to his gruelingly trained gaze. The armed escorts, he concludes, are also chuckling inwardly, though they show no signs but in the slight crinkle of their eyes.

Eventually the car pulls up to a thicket of dead trees obscuring a snowy hill. Yagami is still wracking his brain to figure out the point in driving forty miles inland, leaving behind highways, houses, and civilization in general. He had taken the evening prior to figure out Kim's intentions while his two partners slept soundly with Kim's orders to “get up fresh and early.”

They amble out of the car, and the armed escorts who were once behind Yagami are now stationed behind Kim, the blacks of their suits a comical match with Kim's scroungy black jacket and ratty blue jeans.

“We're going on an adventure,” Kim grins, sending a shiver up Yagami's spine. “So everyone grab a buddy!”

In the end, everyone _but_ Kim gets an escort to guide them through the thicket of trees and up the snowy hill. Of course Yagami knows the man has no need for it, considering his tours on rough terrain. Still, desserts are vastly different from the crunch of snow and soil, and Yagami is amazed at how agile and completely _fine_ the man is with climbing up the raised land threatening to send them tumbling down with sheets of frozen ice and clods of dirt.

Once they reach the top, they come to flattened land that's only about ten feet in width before more dead trees begin. Yet, looking away from the trees, and down the length of the hill, Yagami can see that these are train tracks. Two tracks, to be precise, and the dark color of their material is poking up from where the snow was unable to cover them during the previous night's snowfall. Yagami sees yellow signals in the distant, and a workman's blue station a few yards down. It's definitely a route in usage, and Yagami has a feeling Kim knows when the next car is coming through.

“Not for another three hours,” Kim whispers into Yagami's ear, startling him from his thoughts. One Cheshire grin later, Kim makes his way to the middle of the track and spreads his arms out, as if inviting the clear sky to begin bestowing snow upon them again. “And this is where they found three of the bodies!”

It takes a few minutes for them to gather their thoughts before Park beams with understanding and Burrows fishes out another cigarette and lights it.

“The media dubbed it the Death Track,” Yagami recites, recalling his superior's unimpressed expression during the debriefing of the Midnight Piper murders in Osaka.

“But the bodies were in the length of the tracks near the stations,” Park interjects. “This place has to be at least thirty miles from the closest one.”

“Precisely,” Kim coos, and Yagami feels an inkling of protectiveness rise in his chest as the cold seeps through his coat. He lets himself drift closer to Park.

“You think he killed and dismembered them here before dumping them near the stations?” Porter raises an eyebrow, a look of intense scrutiny flashing before his eyes before settling beneath his usual facade of lethargic passivity, all within the range of seconds.

Kim taps his chin while reviewing the sky above. “Maybe.”

“There are no roads left to drive on,” Park eyes his boss as intently as he does admiringly. Yagami doesn't miss the slight quirk in Kim's lips.

“After another mile, the road ends-”

“-and dead land begins.” Porter drawls, finishing Yagami's sentence and scanning the rusted tracks with weary eyes. “Dead forest, small pools of water, some odd, broken sheds here and there, but no roads. No where for any kind of vehicle to be passing through without leaving tracks behind.”

“And the tracks would be undisturbed by humans, since the forest is off limits for habitation by humans. The only usable mode of transportation through the woods are these tracks.” Park pulls out his phone and holds it up above his head, peering at the glaring, white screen. “There's a signal, but its flaky. The electricity running the tracks are probably just as unreliable.”

“Explaining the usage of the tracks every three hours, instead of having local trains pull through,” Yagami concludes.

“And why there hasn't been an effort to domesticate the woods.” Burrows calculates. “The power companies are too far away, and there isn't even a reliable water source nearby for hydroelectricity.”

“There were a few inhabitants before, but once the cities began to industrialize more rapidly, they left. There shouldn't be anything remotely human living out there.” Yagami concludes.

“But then how would he move the bodies?” Burrows grunts. “There's not a damned chance he could have pulled a car through the woods and not have left a sign. They were combed left and right, last I heard.”

“Maybe he walked up the bodies?” Park wonders out loud.

“DING DING DING!!!”

The sudden screech startles even Burrows, whose cigarette promptly dies a morbid death in the snow below as it tumbles out of his mouth. Yagami glares daggers at the man currently clapping his hands in earnest while the first signs of worry etch Park's usually earnest features.

“Absolutely not,” Yagami ends up deadpanning, but all he receives in return is a mirthful look.

“Absolutely yes, Yagami-kun!” Kim then surveys Park's figure and then rushes him into a hug. There's an awkward silence, and Yagami has to suppress every urge to throw the offending figure off the younger man.

Park is baffled. “Sir?” He ends up squawking.

Kim pouts, looking up at the taller man, gently letting him out of his arms. “He walked up the bodies,” he says, as if it's the most obvious explanation ever.

A sneer momentarily graces Yagami's lips. “That's thirty to forty miles from this point to the nearest station. That's over a day's worth of walking for an average person, and only if they give up food, water, and rest. That doesn't even include the transportation of a body, which then turns an average person into something else. At most, it'll take up to an hour for a person to carry both themselves and the added weight of a body, dismembered or not, across the length of just one mile.”

“And let's not forget the killing supplies and the god damn train itself.” Burrows squints into the horizon as the tracks eventually disappear into into the light mist. “If it really does run through this hill every three hours, there's a likely chance the killer already calculated its arrival beforehand, and would probably grant himself a half hour's heads up to get out of its way so he doesn't get squashed.”

“And it seems even more unlikely for him to partake in killing here when the tracks are perfect places to preserve evidence, as the wheels don't touch the spaces in between the tracks, and any blood spilled or speckled would have already shown up in the records,” Yagami adds.

“Which were drafted two years ago,” Burrows deadpans.

“And not a trace of evidence leading to the killer was found at any station, the nearest tracks, nor in the woods that followed,” Yagami sighs, suddenly recalling that his lapse his emotion was uncalled for.

The armed escorts stare at anything but the three detectives and former military man. It's a comical juxtaposition of sorts. If it were any other day, Yagami would offer to buy them all breakfast and agree to go over the files in a coffee shop. Instead, they're standing in twenty degree weather, sweating under heavy coats and scarves. There's no food in their stomachs and the sky looks just about ready to dump another foot of snow on them.

“But that doesn't mean his accomplice didn't help him,” Park mumbles.

Yagami blinks. “At this rate, he would need multiple.”

“And they would have to be just as good, considering they haven't slipped either.” Burrow eyes Kim, who's now beaming at Park.

“How many accomplices do you think there are, Chanyeol-ah?” Kim asks softly.

Park turns to stare at Burrows, who stares at Yagami, who stares at Park. And Kim? Kim is smiling at Park like he's his girlfriend.

“One?” Park says weakly, and Yagami knows all the mirth has drained from his body, and what remains is fear for the man a foot shorter than him.

“Why one?” Kim asks innocently.

Park gulps. “Be-because if there were more, iit would be a cult.” Park breathes tentatively. “Special-case homicides with this kind of quantity are either supported by a group of killers led by a leader, or one killer with one important connection to get around obvious leads.”

Kim urges him to continue as Burrows lights another cigarette. Yagami knows the American man is putting it together in his head, and Yagami is getting to something as well, but he's missing an important piece- something Park seems to have figured out.

“It's like the Poison-maker case.” Park clarifies. “He had a shed in mountains where he grew his herbs, but the kicker was the married father from the village below that he seduced. He was the one who put the poison in the places Bregcrift made his way to at later dates.”

Yagami clenches his fists while Burrows lets out a deep-rooted sigh.

“Didn't Yagami-kun promise to kiss him if the death count hit two hundred?” Kim asks abruptly. Yagami is stunned, recalling that the body-cross they had discovered the previous week put the Midnight Piper's death count past two hundred. Kim gives him a sickeningly sweet smile in return.

“But Yagami was motive,” Burrows interjects, knowing where Kim was running with his analysis. “ _You_ were an accessory when you let him off to commit ten more murders,” he comments matter-of-factly.

Park has the decency to gasp as the blatancy of Burrows' words, and Yagami puts it down in his mental checklist to personally buy Burrows some expensive cigarettes later in Stockholm.

“Exactly!” Kim claps.

“So he has one accomplice and one motive.” Park calculates.

“But what the hell does any of that have to do with the fact that we're in the middle of a train route and freezing our asses off?” Yet there's no agitation in Burrows' voice, only weariness and a touch of confusion.

And then Kim slumps his shoulders, his grin falling to a frown. “You guys really wanna go on an adventure, don't you?” He asks morosely. As per usual, the three detectives are dumbfounded by the man's antics, and that ends up bringing a smile back to his face. “OK then,” he beams.

He turns around almost too fast to be even considered remotely human. The armed escorts are still standing beside the three detectives, and Yagami realizes they had already been briefed on the events about to transpire, and were specifically brought in to watch over the three of them.

Not Kim, because Kim was inhuman.

Park is the first to speak. “Should we go after him?”

Burrows sighs and starts to jog after the quickly disappearing form of their boss. His escort tails behind him at a respectable distance. Park is a trained runner, so he and his escort are gone even before Burrows can take another puff of his cigarette.

Yagami and his escort are the last to jostle from their positions and begin to run. He thinks about how anxious Gorn is in his cell, knowing his Shuya would be coming up soon for a visit.

Then, abruptly, Kim Jong Dae is in front of him, as if he'd never sprinted away from them. Burrows, Park, and their guards are breathing heavily.

“Did you know Gorn is just a pronunciation-mishap form of Goran? It means wood-walker in Slavic,” Kim notes.

Of course Yagami knows. Gorn had told him the stories of his time in Montenegro, his possible birth there, and the fact that he never did find his parents. “Yes.”

“Do you know his Korean name?”

That makes Yagami raise an eyebrow, because Gorn has never told him anything about being in Korea. In fact, if Yagami has to judge, Gorn didn't look an ounce East Asian. But then again, he remembers that Gorn's face is a mixture of deformities- a one milky eye he can't see out of, melted lips, and various scars. But because of his skin color (as white and milky as his defective eye), Yagami had assumed he was of European decent. Gorn had pretty much confirmed it during their various meetings in La Santé.

Kim turns away and starts walking this time, beckoning everyone to follow him. Yagami attempts to formulate the new finding, recalling Gorn's facial features and the milky white eye that was placed in a socket that was wide and peering, much like Burrows' eyes, unlike the sharply curved gestures of Yagami, Park, and Kim's eyes. But then again, had Yagami ever seen Gorn in full light? La Santé would only allow Yagami to sit underneath bright lighting, but not Gorn. Gorn would always be obscured by a layer of darkness, enough that only three quarters of his face would be visible, and the rest hidden away in the chains the prison dressed him in and the shadow that seemed to follow the Poison-maker everywhere.

But Korean? Yagami thinks he's hungry and tired and putting way too much thought into it. Maybe Gorn had carried out a hit in Seoul or Busan. Maybe Gorn adopted a Korean name to escape suspicion.

Yagami stumbles after his team and their leader, and he can't get Gorn's image out of his head no matter how hard he tries.

And then Kim calls out, looking up at the white sky beginning to bequeath the land with fresh flakes of snow. “His name is Baekhyun.”

*******

He keeps his eyes on the ceiling. It doesn't hurt to look up, not when the the lighting is dim. He doesn't say hello. Despite eight years of separation, he's still as stubborn as a mule, and perhaps, most likely, just as dumb.

The hand doesn't stop shaking.

The first time it approached Lu Han, he immediately pissed his pants and then told the nanny. The nanny told his mother, and his mother told his father. The next day, he went to school with a dark bruise over his right eye and that's when he learned to keep his mouth shut.

Eight years of separation, and it still couldn't keep its eyes off of him.

He remembers the days he spent crying into his pillow, the duvet pulled over his head as he whispered prayers to an unknown entity quaintly known as “God.” Those days were rough, he recalls correctly, but the ones that came afterwards are the freshest in his head. The days he spent living his life with a second shadow next to him were the ones he would never forget.

Of course, it was always there.

It's not like Lu Han didn't know there was something totally off about the faint outlines of black and grey that followed him wherever he went. It was just that a six year old couldn't put together the presence of a cold spot and a vague shadow, and make it out to be a ghost. Neither could a four year old, or a seven year old, or a baby, at that. Lu Han was eight when it made the decision to stare back at him one particular afternoon while he was brushing his dark brown hair in front of the mirror.

He remembers asking it to help him cheat on an exam when he was thirteen, impressionable, and certainly dumber than a box of baby birds. It had not answered, and Lu Han had grumbled underneath his breath the entire day about useless spirits who mooched off rich kids.

And it wasn't as if it ever physically hurt him, either. If anyone asks, Lu Han would tell them the truth, tell them that it never laid a finger on him until that queer afternoon when he died, and that it never spoke, not until the day he died.

And Lu Han did die. He died, and it confirmed that he had died, and now it's back, and Lu Han stares at the swirling fan above his head, his gaze purposefully averted from the pale, stick-like figure standing still in the corner of the room where he's sleeping for the rest of the week. Everything is still, he then notes. Except maybe the dead, shaking hand and the rotating fan installed into the ceiling of the hospital room.

Lu Han has its features imprinted in his memory, much like he has the look of Yixing's soft flesh and the broad curves of his shoulder blades imbedded into the back of his eyelids. But unlike Yixing, it has greasy black locks falling down its flat chest, obscuring its face and mouth, with only a hint of color indicating its eyes. Sharp curves are present at its elbows, hips, and legs, whereas Yixing is soft on the hips while the insides of his thighs are always warm, and always, _always_ smelling faintly of rose oil.

 _It_ doesn't have a smell, and it had the nerve to watch him make love to a man who could leave him at any time. But it doesn't seem to care, because if it did, it would leave.

But it doesn't, and Lu Han keeps his eyes on the weak light and whirling fan.

“Bend, lower, burn, split.”

The words are dry with age, voice raspy from no usage.

“If you were tangible, I wouldn't mind setting you on fire,” Lu Han drawls, letting his eyelashes flutter listlessly. “At least then I could be free.”

It didn't seem to hear him. “Bend, lower, burn, split.”

“You could try bending over for Satan, and maybe then he'll take your application for a room in hell,” he suggests seriously. Again, it ignores him and repeats the four words over again. And again. And again.

And again.

“Do you want to kill me?” Lu Han wonders out loud. “I think you want to kill me. I'm sorry I'm not dead again, but you can try again in a few months when I binge drink again,” he promises.

So many again's.

“Bend, lower, burn, split,” it repeats.

The fan continues to spin and Lu Han can picture himself hanging from it.

“Hanging forever,” Lu Han chuckles softly.

“Hanging forever,” he thinks he hears it say as he drifts off to sleep.

*******

After having spent eight hours working, two hours making routine check-ins on Jong Dae's floor to make sure nobody have burned anything down while the photographer was off on some clandestine operation of his, and another hour staring at Lu Han sleeping in the hospital, Wu Fan can safely say that today sucks.

Not that there's anything even left of today, anyway. The days are shorter in the winter, and by the time eight nor nine rolls around, it's pitch black in the suburbs. Wu Fan's bus sputters to a stop and he cautiously ambles out onto to his street, grimacing at the fact that the few stores that are usually open have also decided Thursday would be a good day to shut everything down before nine.

He shivers, pulling his coat collar closer around his neck, adjusting his scarf so that half his face is safe from the elements. It's been two hours since the last snowfall ended, but Wu Fan has a feeling it'll be back before it strikes midnight. He could always just go up to his apartment and call it a night, but then Minseok would have to get home with a pseudo-blizzard on the run. The older man could always just walk up to the apartment, but Wu Fan knows he's hesitant to wake Wu Fan. Not that Wu Fan would ever grace the man with any kind of agitation if he _did_ prod him awake with the doorbell, but the shop owner refuses to bother him regardless.

That manages to make Wu Fan huff. He trudges down the street towards coffee shop as the bus rolls away, leaving exhaust and the foul smell of grease in the air. Wearily eying his surroundings, he notes that apartment car parks gates have already been locked, usually open during the day for routine traffic. From as far as Wu Fan can see, it's only the coffee shop that's still awake. He guesses there are only so many people still left milling around this late, but the shop has its rules, and Minseok hardly ever breaks his own guidelines.

Wu Fan wishes he could break just one. Like knocking on his door at two in the morning, so Wu Fan can let him in and not have to spend the night worrying whether or not the man got home safely. The local buses refuse to run after midnight, so Minseok relies on his car, and it's not that Wu Fan has much against cars (he's lying to himself again, and he knows it), but still. Boyfriend. Working past dark. Serial killer stalking streets.

Wu Fan feels cheated out of a peaceful life.

What he doesn't try to think about are the nights when Minseok is in his arms. Those are the nights Wu Fan hates the most.

One hospitalized friend is enough, and he doesn't intend to give himself a heart attack and put himself in a room next. Still, the nights Minseok decides he no longer wants to sleep next to Wu Fan are the worst. Minseok's skin is the color of ivory during the winter months, warm to the touch, yet eerily icy when Wu Fan's not pressing his lips against the pale skin. Those nights, before Minseok disappears, Wu Fan can't help but let his fingers drift over the unmarred flesh of his chest and stomach as they lay side by side.

And then, mere hours later, Minseok is gone, and Wu Fan is left to hug the latter's pillow instead.

Where do you go when you think I've fallen sleep, he sometimes asks himself when he's letting the bud of his thumb stroke Minseok's sharp cheekbones. Do you wonder if I dream, he longs to inquire.

And then there are nights when Wu Fan gets angry. Completely, ruthlessly angry.

Do you forget that I'm here, he sometimes wants to scream at the man who quietly shuffles away when he thinks Wu Fan is asleep. Where do you go, my love, Wu Fan routinely thinks. Why won't you stay, he commonly gripes.

Yet what he fears most is finding out. It could always be that he's back to working on the coffee shop, because Minseok is nothing short of dedicated. Or perhaps he just doesn't need sleep as much as Wu Fan does, yet Wu Fan knows it's more than that.

But that doesn't stop Wu Fan from worrying the nights the snow falls in the night, reducing visibility, turning perfectly fine roads into killing machines overturning cars left and right.

But those nights, those nights when Minseok slips, those nights are the worst, but oddly- so very oddly -he's OK with then. Even though he hates them.

It's not like they don't have their secrets, and it's definitely not like Minseok doesn't have a hunch that Wu fan isn't really half deaf, just sensitive to noise, and that his ear drums really aren't as defective as the others make them out to be. He could always correct them, tell them that it's a purely psychological response to a very bad situation during a very dark period of his life, but Wu Fan doesn't have the guts.

It's not like you talk vehicular manslaughter over muffins and coffee. Grimacing, Wu Fan knows it's not best to dwell on the past. He slides his thumb over the band on his ring finger, reminding himself that he's getting married soon. He has to train himself to be around a large family again, and yes, three is a crowd, even when being one, being _alone_ , has always been troublesome.

He frowns, only a few feet away from windows of the shop, and if he takes just a few more steps, he'll be within viewing range. He knows Minseok is behind the bar, making hot drinks, making people feel warm, feel comfortable, feel _safe_.

How does one tell a lover that one is actually partially insane, has a criminal record, and probably isn't worthy of said lover?

Wu Fan figures people just gloss over these things when they occupy themselves with relationships.

Or, they're setting themselves up to be tossed to the side again. Wu Fan surmises that he's in the latter category, and thus, the ring feels cold on his finger today, and he remembers when he first flew into Sweden. Young, impressionable, and absolutely obsessed with the cold weather, despite the fact that he'd almost frozen to death after his father's car had flipped over and sent him flying out the window and into a mound of snow on the roadside.

Six months in a coma, was it? Hypothermia? Broken bones? Way too many internal injuries? Wu Fan takes his hands out of his pockets and picks off a glove. His hand is as smooth as butter, just lightly beading with the sweat that had been collected in the glove. How many cosmetic procedures did he go through again?

Of course, he remembers the number (almost twenty-two, from minor corrections to large-scale operations). In fact, he remembers all the doctors, both in and out of the mental health institution, and he remembers that no, he _doesn't_ have a criminal record, that he's never been charged, never will be charged, and thus, will have to live with his secrets all alone and for the rest of his life.

And Minseok with his powerful arms, and soft face, and sharp cheekbones, and gentle caress- Minseok doesn't know, and he won't know.

Because Wu Fan has long decided he won't ask where Minseok goes when he thinks Wu Fan is asleep, because he knows if he does, he'll have to come clean. He's always been a weakling, both back in Vancouver and here. Sometimes, he'll wish he never woke up from his icy bed, one that should have been his grave, but isn't.

It's because Wu Fan is weak, and unable to let go of the few good things he has in his life. If Lu Han kills himself with the alcohol, Wu Fan knows he won't make another week. If Jong Dae quits and flies back to Brooklyn, Wu Fan won't know how to proceed with his career. If Minseok is gone, then Sehun is gone, and Jongin is gone, and the small house on the hill overlooking the Malaren is gone, then Wu Fan is gone.

He's always been no one. He's always been a recluse. He drinks his coffee, reads his daily chapter of whatever book he happens to be in the middle of, and Minseok still writes cheeky manga quotes on his coffee cups in the mornings. Sure, the man disappears for hours on end, but he's always back, always ready to spoon Wu Fan properly, always ready to lay a kiss on his forehead, always ready with some line from a song, from a book, from a manga comic, from a fortune cookie, ready to whisper it in his ear before drifting to sleep.

And Wu Fan drowns in guilt.

*******

Even after blinking several times, Minseok learned earlier in the evening that it wasn't his imagination depicting Kim Jong Dae shrugging off his tattered black jacket and grinning madly from ear to ear with several detectives in tow. It didn't help that said detectives were also the ones hunting him. He'd smiled pleasantly from behind the coffee bar as the men shuffled in, tracking snow and mud on his carpet and then his marble floor. And the photographer wouldn’t stop grinning. It made him inwardly sigh about the future. He'd decided then that he'd definitely have to kill Jong Dae before the wedding.

Unfortunately, he's still behind the coffee bar, and he's still smiling pleasantly, as if Kim Jong Dae's very presence doesn't give him imaginary hives. He watches as the three men sip on hot drinks and vigorously devour the multitude of pastries he keeps on display in the glass case near the entrance of the shop. Kim Jong Dae doesn't touch a damn thing, as per usual, and though normally Minseok could care less, tonight just isn't the night to be petty. These men are trying to tear him away from Sehun and Wu Fan, after all.

So Minseok puts in an order for pizza. It takes a while to arrive, considering all the local shops are already closed, so the pizza's straight out of one Stockholm's busiest districts.

And while they unknowingly wait, they take turns finishing off his remaining supply of sweet and sour tarts, and Park, the tall and inane looking one, takes a few trips back to their car with pastries wrapped in napkins and drinks bundled in carriers. Minseok assumes the bodyguards await in their SUV, but they're not getting any pizza, because Minseok's not _that_ hospitable towards his enemies.

Eventually, the bells on his glass doors jingle as a man hoisting three boxes of pizza shuffles in, thoroughly perturbed at having to make a delivery into the suburbs. But the delicious-smelling food isn't nearly as enticing as who walks in seconds later.

Wu Fan is bundled up like a panda, scarf wrapped around half his face, collars upturned, hands trapped in gloves.

And he looks adorable.

“Boss, you can't be popping in for booty calls when there's company,” Jong Dae teases, wiggling his eyebrows. Minseok tries not to roll his eyes, keeping his blank smile frozen on his lips.

Wu Fan harumphs and then proceeds to strip himself of the warm layers. He ends up taking a seat next to the photographer, still in his suits and loafers. It takes him a while to adjust to the sight in front of him, but once he does, he stiffens.

“Did you just get back from work?” Minseok hums lightly, taking the pizza from the deliverer and handing over way too much money for only a couple boxes of greasy bread and cheese. The deliverer scrams.

“Yes,” Wu Fan sighs, sulking as Jong Dae pours him a cup of warm cocoa. The detectives that didn't introduce themselves earlier sit silently, refusing to make any more moves at the pastries still laying around, or the newly arrived pizza. Instead, they all seem to stare intently at Wu Fan.

Minseok finds this unacceptable.

“Jong Dae, if you would,” Minseok asks pleasantly, treading over to Wu Fan and laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Jong Dae pouts before jerking a finger at the three stooges. “Eenie, Meanie, and American.”

Minseok tries very, very hard not to roll his eyes.

“I'm Wu Fan, this is my fiance Minseok, and we apologize for Jong Dae,” Wu Fan says automatically, shoulders still rigged with disbelief that he was currently sitting in front of the Midnight Piper's current taskforce. His eyes are earnest, yet Minseok can see fear creeping around the edges.

“Fan-Fan, no!” Jong Dae whines. “I was gonna make them guess!”

“They're officers of the law, Jong Dae,” Wu Fan pleads, shooting his friend an exasperated look.

“Party pooper,” Jong Dae pouts, producing a plastic flask from God knows where. He takes a long swig and then crushes the flimsy carton. “And I'm their boss, so I get to be as bitchtastically annoying as I want,” he huffs, burping shortly afterwards.

Minseok smiles, teeth glistening, his eyes shining in the warm light of the coffee shop. The eyes of the detectives never leave Wu Fan. Jong Dae's smile is sharper than the cleavers Minseok likes to utilize on his off nights.

“... Boss?” Wu Fan asks weakly. Minseok makes a note to keep Jong Dae around for about a week, so he can torture him before he kills him.

“My former boss in the States offered me twenty million,” he answers cheekily. “I couldn't resist!”

It's not as if Wu Fan's face falls because of the sheer amount (but really, Minseok thinks, I'm only worth twenty million US dollars?). OK, but maybe it does. Maybe Wu Fan's face falls because of the sheer amount of money, and not because of the fact that Jong Dae has enough authority left from his days as a soldier to be able to commandeer a task force currently after the century's most prolific serial killer.

Or maybe Wu Fan is just tired. Minseok thinks maybe that's it. Wu Fan's tired, and Kim Jong Dae makes way too many jokes for his own good, and the policemen are eying Wu Fan like he's some kind of specimen. Minseok's gaze falls upon the Japanese one. He makes sure to remind Suho that there's a new problem in town.

“Go on, introduce yourselves,” Jong Dae coos, and Minseok gives it his best effort not to 'ugh.'

Ugly duckling number one says, “Detective Yagami.”

The one that smells like he's going to be living in the lung cancer ward when he's forty rasps, “Burrows.”

 

And finally, the dumbass says, “Chanyeol Park, detective.”

Minseok tries not to glare daggers at the Korean.

“Its-” Wu Fan wets his lips, “it's a pleasure to meet you all,” he ends up forcing a smile. It hurts Minseok to see him like this.

At this time, Jong Dae doesn't hesitate to grab the pizza boxes and start dishing out the food. He holds out a slice to Wu Fan as Minseok carefully continues to size up the detectives. “Hungry?”

Wu Fan shakes his head and Jong Dae shrugs, digging into his slice. Minseok feels an uncanny sensation in his stomach as Wu Fan sighs heavily and finishes his cup of cocoa.

Really, Minseok considers fishing for information. He even considers calling Suho, or maybe Sehun, anything. Those peering eyes need to get off Wu Fan, and Minseok needs to figure out why Yagami keeps switching back and forth between Jong Dae's form and Wu Fan's.

But then someone's phone rings, and it's not Wu Fan, and Minseok keeps his cell on the third floor, and the shop phone is much louder and a lot more obnoxious. Its Yagami's, apparently.

And all hell breaks loose.

*******

Suho is in the process of sedating the father-of-four when the mansion bell rings. He scrunches his perfectly plucked eyebrows in confusion as he studies the grandfather clock. It's still too early. Night has just fallen, and his servants are still strolling up and down the halls of the thirty-five room behemoth, cleaning and arranging as they go. He sighs inwardly, seeing that even the meals are far from done, as the father-of-four froths lightly at the mouth. Suho pouts.

Sometimes Kyuhyun can be early to the dinner party, ready to shower Suho with stolen phrases from dead poets, and more often than not, asking his hand in marriage. Luckily, those moments are deftly cut short when Amber arrives and proceeds to deadpan another story about her adventures posing as a college student in Los Angeles. Suho suspects she has a sixth sense for these kinds of things.

But then again, Kyuhyun never arrives while his staff is still working, and there are still a few hours left until they retire to their quarters. It couldn't be the other four, as Taemin would never be so disrespectful as a guest to show up without giving his host a grace period, much like the head start he gave his victims. He just can't fathom who could be ringing his doorbell so early in the afternoon. It's not as if his darling Minseok ever dropped by either, prompting him to frown deeply.

He's about to stick a needle in the father-of-four's eye when there's a knock at the door. One of his servants shuffles in, eyes on the floor.

“Yes?”

The girl lifts her gaze to his figure as he pushes the needle into the man's eye and then empties the contents of the cartridge. Then he drops the item into the trashcan before turning to see the woman's hands form signs. He quirks an eyebrow at the message and eventually nods. Nodding, she bows and slinks out as he finishes covering the man entirely with a silk shroud before washing and drying his hands.

Minutes later, a lithe form in a blue suit glides into the kitchen. Suho smiles pleasantly, though confused at such an early arrival, yet warmed by the thought that one of his closest friends wanted to keep him company until the rest arrived, or perhaps even aid him in teasing Kyuhyun when he arrives.

Yet shocks Suho more is the fact that the demon in front of him is whole, pale white skin glistening in the afternoon light. Usually, everyone but Suho would have a double somewhere else keeping up appearances. Hosts wouldn't keep doubles, simply because it would be rude, but guests would always be more than free to have tens of doubles running around.

Suho envelops the younger demon into a tight hug. To hell with demonic jurisprudence. His favorite guest had arrived, and he's just as whole as Suho, and that in itself is perfectly fine.

“Hey, hyung,” the man answers lightly, his usual bluntness gone.

“Oh, I'm flattered,” Kyuhyun drawls, and Suho has to let go to see that Amber, Taemin, and Leeteuk have also filtered in.

“Early celebration,” Taemin clips, producing a bottle of port from behind his back, his dark eyes blank and unliving.

Suho is still very much confused. “Celebration for what?”

Leeteuk sighs listlessly. “Someone hasn't heard the news.”

“Which is OK,” Amber adds demurely.

If Amber says it's OK, then Suho assumes it is. She does the honor of pulling back the shroud and taking the first sip of life from the lips of the anesthetized man. They all take turns taking tiny sips until there's only the man in the blue suit left.

Taemin fills everyone's goblets with port and they all hold theirs up except the first arrival, and Suho doesn't know why but doesn't actually mind.

“To Baekhyun,” Taemin says.

Then Kyuhyun pulls out his iPAD, and then they pour over the breaking news about Gorn Bregcrift's escape from his Parisian prison cell, causing fits of dry guffaws and intricately hidden snickers to emanate throughout the vast kitchen.

Suho smiles, thinking he hasn't seen his fellow companions express this much mirth in centuries.

*******

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- A few elements from the Death Note manga are incorporated in this fic. For example, Shuya Yagami is loosely based on Light. The demon's leathery skin and red eyes are inspired by Ryuk's physical features.
> 
> \- A note on spelling: I tend to use both spaced names (Lu Han) as well as unspaced names (Luhan), depending on my mood, but usually because I'm not paying attention. My apologies.


End file.
